Chapter 2 - WHO IS THAT GUY?David Carter opened the garage at 11:18 p.m.
“What happened?”
Miles walked past him.
“Nothing.”
“You drove forty minutes at midnight for nothing?”
“Where’s Grandpa’s stuff?”
David frowned.
“What stuff?”
“The boxes from the old garage.”
David stared.
“Why?”
“Dad.”
Something in Miles’s tone made him stop asking.
He pointed toward the back wall.
“Top shelf.”
Miles dragged down two dusty plastic bins.
David leaned against the workbench.
“What are you looking for?”
“A picture.”
“Of?”
“Grandpa playing basketball.”
David’s face tightened almost imperceptibly.
Miles noticed.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“There are a hundred pictures.”
“This one had two guys.”
David went quiet.
Miles opened the first bin.
Old trophies.
Tax papers.
A cracked stopwatch.
Programs from college games.
Then photographs.
Black-and-white.
Leon Carter younger than Miles had ever imagined him.
Tall.
Lean.
Serious.
Miles smiled despite himself.
Then he found it.
The photograph was larger than he remembered.
Two young men standing shoulder to shoulder in white basketball uniforms.
Leon Carter on the right.
The man beside him held a basketball against one hip.
Miles wiped dust from the plastic sleeve.
His heart skipped.
Same eyes.
Same narrow face.
Same calm expression.
Harold.
Not ninety.
Maybe twenty-one.
But unmistakable.
On the bottom edge someone had written:
Leon Carter & Harold Benson — 1957.
Miles looked at his father.
David was no longer leaning casually.
He stood stiff.
“Who is Harold Benson?”
David said nothing.
“Dad.”
“Put that away.”
Miles laughed.
“What?”
“I said put it away.”
“Why?”
David reached for photograph.
Miles pulled it back.
“Who is he?”
“Someone from your grandfather’s past.”
“That’s obvious.”
“Miles.”
“I met him today.”
David froze.
“What?”
“At the court.”
“What court?”
“The one on Wilshire.”
David stepped closer.
“You spoke to him?”
“Sort of.”
“What did he say?”
Miles stared.
His father was afraid.
Not curious.
Afraid.
“He made one shot.”
David’s face changed again.
“A shot?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind?”
Miles almost laughed.
“What does that matter?”
David ignored.
“Where from?”
“Near sideline. Maybe nineteen feet.”
“Set shot?”
Miles frowned.
“I guess.”
“No jump?”
“Not really.”
David looked away.
Miles’s irritation turned to curiosity.
“You know exactly how he shoots.”
David shook his head.
“I know stories.”
“What stories?”
“Old ones.”
Miles placed photograph on workbench.
“Tell me.”
David looked toward house.
As though checking whether someone else could hear.
Then he closed the garage door.
“You need to stay away from Harold Benson.”
Miles laughed.
“Why?”
“Because your grandfather wanted it that way.”
“What did he do?”
David’s mouth tightened.
“Enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
David picked up photograph.
His thumb moved across Harold’s face.
“When your grandfather was twenty-three, he had a chance to play professional basketball.”
Miles knew that.
Leon had always been described as “almost pro.”
Knee injury, Miles had been told.
Bad timing.
Life.
“He was good enough?”
“More than good enough.”
“What happened?”
David looked at photograph.
“Harold.”
Miles waited.
David continued.
“They played together at California Pacific College. Best friends. Same backcourt.”
“What did Harold do?”
David’s jaw hardened.
“There was a gambling investigation.”
Miles stared.
“What?”
“1958.”
“What kind of gambling?”
“Point shaving.”
Miles knew enough sports history.
Players paid to manipulate score margins.
Not necessarily lose.
Just control spread.
“Grandpa?”
David looked angry now.
“Your grandfather was accused.”
“Was he guilty?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Miles noticed.
“And Harold?”
David said nothing.
“Dad.”
“Harold’s name was in the bookmaker’s records.”
“So?”
“So somebody talked.”
“Harold?”
David looked directly at him.
“Your grandfather’s career ended. His scholarship support disappeared. Nobody wanted him near serious basketball again.”
“Because Harold told?”
“That’s what happened.”
“Did Grandpa say that?”
Silence.
Miles leaned.
“Did Grandpa actually tell you Harold betrayed him?”
David’s eyes sharpened.
“This isn’t a courtroom.”
“I asked a question.”
David put photograph down.
“Leon Carter spent the rest of his life refusing to talk about that man.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“It means enough.”
Miles thought about Harold’s shot.
The silence.
The line about age.
Then the stranger at the fence.
A man who should’ve been famous.
Miles pulled out phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Searching him.”
David stepped forward.
“Don’t.”
Miles stopped.
“Why are you so scared?”
“I’m not scared.”
“You are.”
David took breath.
“You’re twenty-two. You think every buried thing needs digging up.”
“Maybe because people bury things for a reason.”
“Exactly.”
“No. I mean because they don’t want caught.”
David’s face hardened.
“Go home.”
Miles laughed.
“You’re serious?”
“Go.”
Miles grabbed photograph.
David caught his wrist.
“Leave that.”
Miles looked down.
Then at father.
“Why?”
“It belonged to Grandpa.”
“He’s my grandfather too.”
David released.
“No.”
Miles stared.
David corrected:
“The photograph stays.”
Miles took picture with phone.
Then placed original down.
Fine.
He went home.
At 1:07 a.m., Jordan texted:
FOUND SOMETHING.
Miles called immediately.
Jordan answered excited.
“Search full name plus California Pacific.”
“And?”
“I found newspaper archive.”
Miles sat on bed.
Jordan sent screenshot.
A grainy sports page.
Headline:
BENSON LEADS PACIFIC PAST WESTERN STATE, 71–65
Below was photo.
Young Harold rising into a set shot.
Caption:
Junior guard Harold Benson scored 24 points, including 10 in the final seven minutes.
Another.
BENSON-CARTER BACKCOURT POWERS PACIFIC
Miles stared.
Jordan said:
“Your grandpa and Harold were apparently killers.”
“Keep looking.”
“I did.”
Jordan’s voice changed.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“1958. Gambling scandal.”
Miles already knew now.
“Send.”
Article arrived.
COLLEGE PLAYERS QUESTIONED IN BETTING PROBE
Leon Carter.
Harold Benson.
Two other players.
No convictions mentioned.
Jordan said:
“But here’s weird part.”
“What?”
“Two weeks before scandal, Harold got invited to a pro tryout.”
Miles stared.
“And?”
“Never showed.”
“Why?”
“No explanation.”
Jordan continued.
“Leon got one too.”
Miles felt something turn in his stomach.
Two young men with professional futures.
Then nothing.
He zoomed photograph.
Harold’s face.
Leon’s face.
Best friends.
Miles whispered:
“What happened to you two?”
Jordan said:
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“I searched Harold’s name with Leon’s.”
A scanned community newsletter appeared.
Date: 1974.
Photo of children on an outdoor basketball court.
At edge stood two men.
Older now.
Harold.
Leon.
Together.
Miles sat upright.
May you like
If Harold had destroyed his grandfather’s life…
why were they standing together sixteen years later?
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